


Poetic Right?

by Atanih88



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon Stiles, Gen, Gen Fic, Gore, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Supernatural Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-22
Updated: 2012-08-22
Packaged: 2017-11-12 16:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atanih88/pseuds/Atanih88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt - <i>Stiles is a demon like in Supernatural.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetic Right?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 1957's prompts in [this post](http://atanih88.livejournal.com/108771.html#cutid2), don't think this is what you had in mind, sorry ^^; Unbeta'd and… apologies for character voice fail, will work on it for next time. Just kind of relieved I've finally managed to finish a piece of writing. Sort of. One down and three to go.

"Poetic, isn't it?" Stiles smiles, the taunt in the words familiar but neither fitting right. The smile looks obscene on his mouth. It’s too sharp, reminding Derek of the jagged edges of broken glass.

Not Stiles.

Derek stares at that mouth, his fists clenched at his sides. It keeps him from staring at everything else instead. Not that it matters, it's all there. The stains and smudges of red in his periphery. Seeing red. Stiles would've made a stupid remark about it and Derek would've probably slapped him round the head for it.

But this isn't Stiles in front of him, sitting loose limbed and smiling on one of the benches of the train, hands disturbingly steady and still and reeking of sulphur. It mixes with the heavy and sickeningly rich scent of blood and his stomach dips.

"You know what I mean right?" It uses Stiles' hands to gesture at itself, deceptively long fingers that had kept Derek above water for longer than he'd given Stiles credit for, or expected him to. The fingers are red tipped, nails caked with it.

It's tone turns teasing. "Because last time, Kate screwed you over and this time _I've_ screwed you over. See what I mean? Poetic huh?" The smile's still there, enthusiastic, as if waiting for praise. 

For a moment Derek forgets the restraint he's keeping on himself and the feeling that punches through his chest when he glances at the body by his feet on the floor, it's not unlike getting hit by a wolfsbane bullet. Erica's gaze is a flat stare aimed at the ceiling, unseeing. Her right eye is hollow, the skin around the socket ripped and peeled off.

The smile drops and it widens Stiles' eyes, leaning back, mouth going soft and vulnerable. "Man, okay, you're upset, I'm sorry. How about you toss me around a little, maybe bash my face into a couple of surfaces and then we're good to go?" 

And Derek wants to rip the thing out and tear it to shreds, wants to feel his claws going through flesh and bone because he remembers how vulnerable that mouth feels beneath his hand, remembers the heat against it from Stiles trying to speak anyway, remembers the attempted words turning to gasps and the accidental brush of tongue against the calloused mound of his palm. 

"Seriously, dude, I don't want us to get off to a rough start, I mean, I'm trying you know? I think we actually could work pretty well, right? Right? Remember what Matt said?" It uses its hands as it talks, broad motions in the air as if it's trying to shape its words and Derek feels his nails cutting into the meat of his hands, barely notices the trickle making its way down his skin to drip from his knuckles. It's too much. It overlaps too much and it's tainting other memories. Real memories.

It shrugs, apologetic. "I mean, obviously I'm trying here. You can see that, right? That's why I tried so hard when I picked this one," it glances down and smooth's its hand down Stiles' t-shirt and hoodie, dips his head forward a little and picks at the edge of the t-shirt before lifting it a little and peeking at the skin underneath. "And I've gotta say man, your taste isn't all bad. Shame you never actually got to, you know, tap this or anything. But hey." It looks up then. The smile drops from its face and the watered down whiskey of Stiles' eyes disappears. Eyes, all black, shiny as a beetles back, look out at him. "I'd let you."

The sick feeling in his stomach changes to a wrench and Derek almost doubles over with it. Panic, something he refuses to show, tastes like raw smoke in the back of his throat.

"What do you want?"

But it doesn't answer. Instead it tilts its head in the direction of Boyd's crippled body, the pole still sticking out from the back of his skull where he's lying face down and again, Derek has to fight to keep his body still, not to give it all away. "I'll even bring them back for you. Because I'm that nice, man. Seriously. You'll love me, I'm like the Fonz. Everybody loves the Fonz."

"What," he hisses the word out this time, "do. You. Want."

Stiles' shoulders relax and it seems to sink down, settle back. It makes itself comfortable, legs spreading open a little more, Stiles' sneakers sliding in the blood and bumping against Scott's ripped throat. 

"Let's make a deal."


End file.
